


Wake In A Sweat Again (Another Day's Been Laid To Waste, In My Disgrace)

by revenblue



Series: [series] Halfway Right [4]
Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: Drunk Driving, Drunk Sex, M/M, POV Second Person, Peter didn't ask for this, Poor Life Choices, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revenblue/pseuds/revenblue
Summary: Lifting the bottle, you smile, a toast to the only friend you have left: Peter the fucking Panda.





	Wake In A Sweat Again (Another Day's Been Laid To Waste, In My Disgrace)

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags/warnings. This is the low point of the entire damn series.
> 
> The next part will deal with the fallout, if anyone would prefer to avoid Perry's rationalisations.

You've stopped bothering with your hat.

That was the first thing to go, after your dignity. Not that it matters when you've spent the last however many days (you _really_ can't tell how long it's been with the unwaveringly bright artificial lights in your lair) in a drunken stupor, but still. No hat. No Agent P. No _expectations_ to live up to. Just you and your pile of regrets, buried under the empty bottles you can't bring yourself to clean up.

Lifting the latest one, you squint into it, head throbbing. Just as empty as the rest. You slump back to the cold floor with a sigh, arm over your eyes. The buzz is wearing off already and there's nothing left in the house proper and reality's setting back in.

What you wouldn't give for another drink to soothe the hollow ache in your chest. Or, better yet, something stronger than wine.

The wine you stole from your owners, leaving Candace to-

Fuck.

You'll make it up to her later. Probably.

Hauling yourself to your feet, you stumble to your haphazardly parked hoverjet, one eye half-open so you can see where you're going. Even with your meagre pay, you should be able to afford enough vodka to drown in.

You're just conscious enough to slide in properly, still-bandaged paws curling around the steering wheel, and lift into the sky.

* * *

The first taste of vodka on your tongue is acrid, burning all the way down. Painful, but it'll get the job done. The second goes down easier, while the third brings back painfully sharp memories of your night with-

Fuck, no, you don't want to think about that. Not his weight on top of you, not his ragged breath in your ear, not the way you think you _liked_ it-

You take another drink.

* * *

The world spins under your hindpaws as you stumble out of your hoverjet and into a puddle, your only anchor the bottle still clutched in your paw. Empty, now, but it wasn't earlier.

You can still taste it on your tongue.

It's raining, water pouring from the sky and water pouring over your fur and water pouring into the shallow pool you're lying in, and you think once again about drowning. How easy it would be, just open your nose, open your mouth, feel it fill your lungs-

Pushing the thought out of your mind, you roll over, staring up into the gloomy sky. Where are you? Other than this gutter you're lying in, empty disposable coffee cups washing up against you.

Coffee and rainwater.

Seattle. You drove to _Seattle_.

Dragging yourself out of the frigid water, you slump against the wall- door- fuck, you can't even tell any more. Building, close enough. You lean against the _building_ until the world stops spinning spinning spinning, which it should do at any moment-

Or the wall disappears and you fall backwards into the doorway (it _was_ a door after all) and stare up into Peter's face.

That's right. _Peter_.

Lifting the bottle, you smile, a toast to the only friend you have left: Peter the fucking Panda. You'd drink too, but the bottle hasn't refilled itself while you're not looking so you can't.

He doesn't even blink. Inscrutable as always. And you thought _you_ were stone-faced. You've got nothing on _Peter_ , with his dark eyes and impassive face and fluffy ears that don't even twitch. Staring. His face is shadowed by his hat, eyes shining in the dim light, and he _stares_ back at you. What would it take to make him snarl? To sigh? To sink his teeth into your neck-

Hoisting you up onto his broad shoulder, paw around your waist like it belongs there, he kicks the door shut behind him and carries your drunk ass to the old couch by the wall. Dropping you onto it, he pries the bottle from your bandaged paw. Still silent.

Then he goes to _leave_ , like- like Heinz did, turning his back on you and you can't- can't- can't be alone right now. He's so warm and you're so cold and you can't let him leave you so you wrap your paws and legs and tail around him, pull him onto the couch with you, pull him on top of you, pull him so you're both lying lengthways along it. Run your claws through his soft fur. He's been taking care of himself, soft and well-groomed and it's not _fair_. Why does _he_ get to walk away unchanged while _you_ -

You grab his hat and fling it away. There. Now you're _both_ on your level.

Before he can go after it (he still thinks he _needs_ it, just like you used to think you needed yours) you take hold of both his fluffy ears and yank him closer to crash your bill against his mouth. A kiss, approximately.

Without a sound, he stops with his shoving at your shoulders, hard eyes falling shut. Better than what happened with-

Another yank and you get him settled between your legs _properly_ , a comfortable weight on top of you. Right where you want him. You slide your paws along his back, claws dragging through his fur, digging them into his rump just in case that makes him gasp.

He doesn't, but you can feel the shiver run through his fur as he buries his face in your shoulder, and that's just as good.

Shifting under him, you slide a paw between your bodies, determined to find _some_ way to take him apart. He's too uptight, and that's coming from _you_. Really, you're doing him a favour. You pull his hips to yours, curling your tail up along his spine to hold him in place, and he finally moves, _fucking_ you the way he's supposed to.

This is sex, you've learned. Get drunk, come over for a quick fuck, then you leave in the morning. Feelings don't come into it, unlike with-

You press your face into his fur, inhaling. It's better this way. You don't have to think when he's on top of you, filling your senses with his weight and his scent and his breath rasping in your ear.

How else can you numb the pain?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Given Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xyxtzD54rM) by Linkin Park, which honestly summarises where Perry's at right now. (If you're sensitive to flickering lights, you may wanna run that video in a background tab.)
> 
> Next up (because I'm doing a double post today): format change, pov change, and someone in this mess finally makes a good decision.


End file.
